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After Rudy Guiliani cheated on his wife and they divorced, she wrote a best-selling book titled My Boyfriend’s Back.  I don’t mean to be a copycat, but I’m kind of, sort of, writing the same book. Mine is titled My Boyfriend’s NOT Back, and I Don’t Know Where The Hell He Went. I’ve been brainstorming some ideas on how to find him. I did the obvious google-his-name thing, and may have found him in Michigan, which is where he moved to during that tragic summer of  1961 when he left me. I’ve thought about just picking up the telephone and calling him, but what if there is a Mrs.? What do I say? Something like this?: “Hi, Mrs. ______, I’m Bernie, the lovely thin brunette that your husband was madly in love with in the balmy state of Florida during all of ninth grade. I’m calling to claim him again as MINE. We were meant to be together.  I’ll never forget the awesome Halloween 3D movie we went to, and how it was really dark, and how his mother (YOUR mother-in-law) sat with us the entire time. I’ll also never forget the lovely set (there were six!!) of small bottles of perfume that he gave me for Christmas; one was Chanel No. 5!!!” I’m sure that would make her day. (I’m not kidding; he had good taste – in perfumes and girlfriends.)

I think there is probably a national Find Lost Boyfriend website, but I haven’t found it yet (I think the boyfriends and the website are both lost). I would even be happy to find a website with just photos and contact information. I’m sure I would spot him immediately; after all, I haven’t changed, why would I think he has? It’s only been 45 years, people!!!! We don’t all fall apart.

Anyway, for those of you who are hanging on my every word, let me tell you just how crazy about me that runaway-to-Michigan heart throb was. About 5 years after he left, he came back to Florida for a visit, and FOUND ME – it was just like out of a movie. He knocked on my door, and I called, “who’s there?” He said, “It’s Richard.” I threw open the door, blinded by the bright Florida sun, 9-months pregnant, with a 3-year-old whining in the background, my hair and my house a mess, and said, (before recognizing him), “Are you here about the stopped up toilet?”

I would like to end this wonderful, but sad, love story by saying that we locked my 3-year-old in his room, and made mad passionate love in my king-size waterbed the rest of the afternoon while the warm sun was streaming in through the window and while I carefully watched the clock to make sure my hubby wasn’t due home yet. The truth is, Richard came in and we made small talk for about a half hour while my son kept asking, “Who are you?” “Do you know my daddy?” Richard was dashing and SINGLE. When he left, we hugged. I watched soap operas while sipping sweet tea the rest of the afternoon and thought about what “might have been.” I haven’t seen or heard from him since, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking about me . . .

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

I have to go now; I’ve got some lost boyfriend websites to check.

Bernie